---

‘Get ‘em while they’re young, hot and naive, that’s the secret.’ The expensive suit and handmade shoes don’t disguise Danny’s cheapness. ‘You got ‘em for life, then, see? Bleed ‘em dry.’

Your dictaphone whirs away, but you still scribble notes on a reporter’s pad, capturing the atmosphere. Danny, chomping on a fat Havana, the end pasty with drool. The cameraman, pale and disinterested, tweaks the lighting, rearranges folds in a worn silk curtain that sections off the ‘film-set’ from the rest of the draughty warehouse, oblivious to the trail of semi-naked, strung-out women and girls that drift in and out, twitching and itching for their turn. The gaggle of middle-aged men and women watch from the shadows. Media types mostly—late nights and partying just beginning to show in their sagging jowls, softening bellies and eye bags. They’ll join in the fun, although you’d never recognise them from the finished product. They’ll remain hidden, or mostly hidden, from the camera’s prying lens, an anonymous mouth, a flash of teeth, wet lips.

Danny nods and the camera’s light flicks from red to green.

You both eye the woman being worked on a grubby chaise lounge; Danny with the hungry look of a man calculating his profits in his head. If you were expecting an ounce of shame, a hint of regret that this is the grubby way he makes coin… Well, you’re gonna leave disappointed. Despite the seedy setting, or maybe because of it, you feel the weird pull that countless faceless subscribers, alone in their bedsits, their basements, the work-from-home offices, will later feel.

The woman groans, your eyes remain fixed on her. She makes brief eye contact over the shoulder of her playmate and seems to shiver under your gaze, before her eyelids flutter shut and the groans get louder. Her pale skin is clammy. Your eyes fix on a bead of sweat, rolling slowly down between her breasts. You can’t watch the mouth on her throat or the steady pulse of her vein. You swallow hard.

‘Used to be a Victoria’s Secret model.’ The pride in Danny’s voice at his prize makes you shudder; bile fills your mouth. Your own longing makes you queasy.

You cough.

‘And you’ve… managed her since then?’

Danny nods, grinning. ‘She’s been a good little earner.’

You clock the past tense. 

You keep watching. 

The camera zooms in.

Her underwear is from four seasons ago, soiled with blood that can’t be washed from the cream lace and pale green silk. She’s spread herself across the faded purple velvet, one leg outstretched, hips tilted slightly toward the camera, neck thrown across the threadbare arm, her back arched. She lets out a final shudder before lying back in languorous pleasure, a faint smile playing on her lips.

‘Course, she’s coming to the end of the line now…’ Danny whispers. He doesn’t want to be picked up by the mics. 

A trickle of blood snakes from her neck, following the path the bead of sweat took seconds ago.

The notepad shakes in your tight grip. You lick your lips.

The camera zooms in even tighter on her neck.

Dear God.

This is pay-per-view to watch them bleed—the desperate last tweak of something that was once fame.

‘You give ‘em a taste for free. You know how it goes.’ Danny’s face splits into a grin, sharp teeth exposed. He’s definitely had a taste himself. You envy him even as you recoil, mouth dry, lips wet, tongue wanting to lap at her neck.

You look at him more closely, wondering how old he might really be. The tanned face has a few deep lines and crows feet surround the edges of his eyes. You’d pegged him for mid-forties, hard living, sun worshipping, smarmy smiles having left their mark. Now you recalculate. Sixties, maybe seventies, depending on how often he samples the goods. Plenty to choose from. You look at four more girls waiting for their turn in front of the camera.

‘With this one,’ he thumbs toward the woman on the couch, who you notice is much younger than you first thought, no more than thirty. ‘I got her some modelling work, lined her up to be arm candy at a red carpet do, hanging off the arm of a young actor. I watched her in the glare of the paps’ flashes and I knew she was hooked.’

He laughs and your stomach roils at the sound. You watch her, arching her back as another old crone sucks the life from her. Her eyes flit towards the camera, her hands sliding between opened thighs as she stares at the transmission light. Her skin is almost translucent, so much blood’s been drunk from the wounds at her neck. Yet she’s writhing with pleasure. Happy to be fodder, her blood giving virility to those willing to pay to stay young. Content to be entertainment for the kinky pleasure of strangers, just as long as someone is looking, liking, watching.

Her fingers work between her legs and she’s gasping, groaning, grinning. Then the camera cuts out. Her slot is over. The light in her eyes fades instantly and she seems to age another ten years. 

She stumbles to her feet, takes a few staggering steps, and you reach out an arm to catch her as she falls. Her breath comes in a rapid, rasping rattle.

As her screen fades to grey, her last, desperate question: ‘Am I a star, baby?’

---

BIO:

Jude is a full-time carer, sometime writer from near Portsmouth (UK). She’s a typical human bin fire: 75% sarcasm, 25% toxic fumes, allegedly writing a crime comedy novel about the extortionate cost of spa days. Lover of tea, cats and puns, writes flash fiction for the dopamine—words in Punk Noir, Does It Have Pockets and Trash Cat Lit, among others.